Confessions of a Death Watch Soldier
by Pocky Fiend
Summary: A Death Watch soldier talks about their experiences during the Clone Wars.


A woman in gray armor thumped down into the chair opposite me, and took her helmet off, _thunk_-ing it down on the table. The woman had a strong jaw, icy blue eyes, and shiny black hair. Now I knew why my contacts had called her "Raven". She removed her gauntlets and set them next to her helmet as though she'd been doing it her whole life. Maybe she had, she was Mandalorian.

Then off came her gloves, and she rolled up her sleeves to reveal colorful tattoos all the way round her forearms.

"Thanks for meeting with me," I said.

She held a hand up. "Stop," she said in a weary, but very authoritative tone. "Go get me a drink," she fumbled around in her belt pouches, "and an ashtray."

I hurried off to do as she asked. It had taken me months to track down a Death Watch soldier willing to talk to me. She wasn't what I'd expected. For a start, she was a woman. Death Watch didn't exactly have a reputation that would go well with women, I thought. They're not the friendliest or most respectful group of people.

By the time I got back to the table with a bottle of lomin ale and an ashtray, she was already smoking. The smoke rising from her cigarette was faintly pink, rather than the blue tinge found in normal t'bac smoke. Whatever it was, it smelled sweet and tangy.

The woman looked at me. "You're wondering what I'm smoking?"

I nodded, eager to get her to open up a bit on small talk so she'd be more forthcoming once the interview started.

"It's a blend of marcan herb, ambrian cheroot, and t'bac, with some behot for flavor."

I set the ashtray down and handed her the bottle of lomin.

She looked at the bottle and nodded. "That'll do." She gestured with the hand holding the cigarette. "Sit."

I sat, and picked up my datapad.

She took a long draft from her ale, and regarded me with those icy blue eyes. It didn't feel like they'd cut through me this time, not like when she'd first looked at me. Her pupils were dilated, which made her eyes seem softer somehow. I guessed it was probably from the ambrian cheroot and marcan herb. "So... what do you want to know?"

"I don't know. How about we start with your name?"

"Raven," she said tersely. It seemed to me that she'd responded reflexively.

"You don't have a family name?" I prompted.

Raven leaned back in her chair, and took a deep breath, then exhaled, sending a puff of pink smoke across the table. "My family's name is Kyr'senaar. It's a name I'm proud of, and I guard it closely. Only a handful of people call me Kyr'senaar, and of those, only two know my first name. I'd prefer to keep it that way."

I erased the name, and showed her it was stricken from my notes.

She nodded, and took another puff of her cigarette.

"So what does everyone else call you?"

"Most people know me as Raven. It's not a complete lie, the historic form of my family name, Kyr'ad'senaar, does translate poetically as raven, but I'm not one for poetry. Translated literally, it means end bird, death bird, or corpse bird. In the fringes of society, a terse "I'm Raven," discourages questions."

I nodded, taking notes. "Anonymity is important to you then?"

"Yeah. It has to be. I'm Death Watch. You know our reputation, terrorists and thugs, armed with rifles and bombs, and covered in armor."

I nodded, and she continued talking.

"Mandalorian armor helps protect my anonymity too. To an aruetii, an outsider, every Mandalorian is the same, a terrifying monster cocooned in an impenetrable skin of metal. I once heard someone say we're like walking, breathing, tanks. I suppose we are.

Why Duchess Satine and her fellow Kalevalans would give up that feeling of invincibility is absolutely baffling. I don't necessarily wear the armor because I'm expecting trouble though. It's a cultural thing."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. It's in the Resol'nare."

I stopped writing. "What's the resol'nare?"

"The six tenets, the core of what it is to be Mandalorian."

"What does it mean to be Mandalorian?"

"Education and armor, self-defense, our tribe, our language, our leader - all help us survive." Raven said firmly, but with a lilt to her voice that hadn't been apparent before.

"That's why Satine and her New Mandalorians aren't really Mandalorians. They don't follow the Resol'nare. They're all dar'manda."

"Dar'manda?" I interrupted.

Raven regarded me coldy. "Not Mandalorian. Disowned, expatriated, not necessarily officially. They can't dictate anything to us, Satine has no right. She's not our leader. That's why I did the things I did. And I'd do them again too, if it were necessary."

"What did you do?"

"I've set up explosive devices in public places, I've kidnapped people, trafficked illegal items..." she waved her hand around, leaving a trail of pink smoke in its wake. "You know, the usual stuff you reporters think terrorists do."

"Why?"

"I'm from an ultra-conservative family."

I looked up from my datapad.

"I know you think that sounds amusing, considering you're staring at a woman who drinks, smokes, swears, does a bit of spice now and then, and is covered in tattoos, but it's true. My family isn't conservative in the way you aruetiise think of it. No, my family is conservative from a Mandalorian mindset.

It used to be that the very mention of Mandalorians made the whole galaxy quake in their little boots. You'd hear people say to their kids "don't do that, or the Mandalorians will get you". Those were what my parents would call "the good old days". They weren't the only ones. There were a whole lot of Mandalorians who thought that way, but there were just as many who didn't.

There was a big civil war over that in the Mandalorian sector. My family was on the losing side, but my parents still believe in Mandalorian supremacy."

"But you don't?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Yes and no."

"Your parents didn't raise you to believe in Mandalorian supremacy?"

"They did."

"What changed?"

"Everything. Nothing. I don't know." Raven shrugged. "Something changed."

"Was it something that happened to you? Or something you did that changed your mind?"

She shook her head. "No. Wer'cuy. It doesn't matter why."

"What do you think now?"

"I think the Mandalorians are too few. We can't take the galaxy by force. Better to bide our time than try write a check our shebs can't cash." She tapped the ashes from the end of her cigarette.

"But you're still Death Watch?"

"No. I used to be. But not anymore."

"Why not?"

"I think Pre Viszla's going crazy."

"Is he?"

Raven shrugged. "He used to be charismatic, someone I admired, looked up to. Either he was always crazy, and I was too lovestruck to see it, or he's going crazy. Either way, I'm done with Death Watch. It lost its way somewhere, I think."


End file.
